


Pro tempore

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Friendship, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, TalesWhumpWeek, just a hint of a one-sided ship there, take it or leave it as you will tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 21:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16104050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: It’s not the first time a friend is hurt for her sake. She just hopes it’s the last. [Alisha, Mikleo.]Done for the prompt “accident” in the TalesWhumpWeek challenge on tumblr.





	Pro tempore

“You can determine that much from one observation?” Alisha didn’t hide her wonder nor her impressed stare as she watched Mikleo, who continued to pace the length of the mural with arms crossed.

“The art style’s pretty distinct. And the lettering around the edges—” He indicated a series of symbols cluttered around the bottom left corner. “—resembles a dialect from that age. It isn’t definitive evidence of origin or authenticity, but I’m comfortable in assuming my guess is close.” He smiled confidently at her as she beamed.

“That’s amazing!” She folded her hands behind her back, studying the ancient carvings with interest. They seemed to have been well-preserved this deep in the ruins, away from sunlight and moisture. “As a little girl, I thought I’d learned a lot from reading the Celestial Record,” she mused warmly. “But I see I have a very long way to go before I can call myself well-versed.”

They continued down the hall, their gazes roaming and alert for signs of interest as well as danger. There hadn’t been a single sign of life thus far aside from insects, but remaining wary in a new location was habit for Alisha by now, if not instinct.

The next room they came across could have passed for a museum: the floor was lined with pedestals boasting various forms of pottery and statues, the walls covered in weapons ranging from bows to swords, real and ceremonial alike.

“Incredible,” she heard Mikleo murmur behind her. “So many pieces intact… And this place looks untouched.”

“Is that strange?”

“Well, these ruins aren’t in a particularly remote or dangerous location. More often than not, a trove like this would have been plundered by now.”

Moving further in, Alisha wondered, “You said this place was made with seraphic artes, yes? Perhaps there’s—” Something crunched loudly under her boot. She looked down and went rigid with surprise.

The floor was littered with human skeletons. Some looked very old, garbed in tatters of clothing barely recognizable, while others may have been more recent, if the strips of dried, leathered flesh and muscle clinging to their bones were any indication.

Startled, she covered her mouth and took a hasty step back—and felt the floor give slightly beneath her weight with a soft _click_.

“What—”

“Alisha!”

She was yanked roughly backwards as something whistled past her ear. She lost her balance and hit the ground with a grunt, her spear’s shaft bruising her shoulder blades as she landed. She was up again just as quickly, close to Mikleo’s side as she searched the room for a threat.

“What is it?” she asked quickly. She reached over her shoulder for her spear, gripping tight without yet drawing. When he didn’t respond, she glanced at him curiously. “Mikleo? What—oh!”

The seraph’s expression was terse and pained, and she immediately saw why: on the front and right sides of his throat, small cylinders about the size of her finger protruded from his collar. Slowly, as if with effort, he reached up and pulled them both free—and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the needles on the end coated with his blood.

“Poison,” he deduced. His voice sounded tight. “Fast-acting. It might—” He swayed dangerously. Alisha caught hold of his shoulders to keep him upright.

“Mikleo! Try to walk with me—”

They made it back into the corridor, which was good enough. She helped him lean against the wall, where he immediately slid down to land in a heap on the floor. Crouching beside him, she gripped his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake when he didn’t immediately raise his head.

“Mikleo! Mikleo, please, you have to stay awake! Can you use a healing arte?”

Slowly, he looked at her—almost, anyway. His distant gaze was clouded, fixed on a spot somewhere over her shoulder. “Yes,” he muttered after a moment. “I can… heal…” He slouched forward, collapsed against her chest, and went still. Her blood ran cold.

_“Mikleo!”_ She propped him back against the wall and leaned forward until her cheek almost touched his lips—and sighed loudly with relief when she felt his breath on her skin. He was alive.

But for how much longer?

It made sense now. The unspoiled room, the corpses, the trap—she’d activated the mechanism that fired the darts. Mikleo had protected her.

Guilt immediately chewed at her, but Alisha forcefully shoved it aside. She could wallow in self-blame later. For now she needed to focus on keeping him alive.

Her mind raced with what she’d been taught about treating wounds. A snakebite seemed the most relatable injury in her repertoire, so she quickly set to work: moving as carefully as she was able, she laid him out on his back and opened his coat. The punctures in his neck were small, the skin around them was already a bright, inflamed red. As much as the thought made her wince, she would have to make the injuries wider if she wanted to stand a chance at extracting the poison.

Except the poison was already affecting him, Alisha considered, so interfering too much might do more harm than good—especially when she’d never done this before, and the area in question was particularly sensitive. There was no sense in cutting into the wounds if she could end up slitting his throat. Neither did she have the materials to make a fire for sterilizing her blade.

Alisha hesitated. She wasn’t well-equipped or knowledgeable enough to take those chances on faith alone.

But she couldn’t simply do _nothing,_ either.

After racking her brain for a few tense seconds, she settled on a compromise. Taking Mikleo’s flushed face in her hands, she eased his head back and chin up to expose his throat as much as she was able—and whispered a swift apology before leaning down and covering the front puncture with her mouth.

His skin was feverishly warm here as well, and surprisingly soft and malleable. It gave easily into the pressure as she sucked on the wound, the sour tang of blood hitting her tongue along with the outlandish, far too intimate sensation of his skin rolling between her lips and teeth. She quickly retreated and spat to the side, her stomach twisting with a sense of uncertainty and violation—but that coppery aftertaste reminded her of what was at stake. She took to his neck again.

She counted silently to thirty as she worked, moved to the other injury, and did the same. Her breath was short and her mouth tingling by the time she drew back. Wary of the poison’s potency, she spared a sip of water from her canteen to wash her mouth out. She then stripped off her gloves and swept her palm under Mikleo’s bangs to feel his forehead—and her touch met cool metal instead.

Alisha stared at the slender circlet of gold, surprised and more than a little curious. Had he always worn this? She’d never noticed it before.

Her fingers hesitated briefly over the band, but then she took careful hold of it and eased it off of him. After setting it aside, she touched his forehead and found it hot. She checked his pulse, which was racing.

She considered her small list of options quickly. Carrying him out of here was possible, but they were hours from the nearest town—and that was at a good pace. Under his weight, and with the on-again-off-again storms this time of year, it would take her the better part of a day, at least. There was nothing to say it would do any good, either; jostling him too much could make the poison spread faster.

If he was feverish, he needed to be kept warm and hydrated, and that could only be done effectively by staying put. The fact that he hadn’t just dropped dead on the spot, as the trap’s other victims seemed to have done, was promising as well. Perhaps seraphim were more resilient to certain substances, or he had removed the darts before the full dose had entered his system.

Either way, Alisha soon settled on looking after him where he was. If his symptoms worsened, she would take the risk and move him.

With a plan to focus on, she felt much more confident and steady. She quickly removed her vambraces and tunic, and then spent as much water as she dared in dampening one corner of the shirt. This she pressed to his forehead, using another corner to gently pat his neck clean before closing and fastening his coat back into place.

And then she waited, while the negative thoughts began to creep back in. Irritation at her own ignorance, the growing belief that she should never have come along...

He’d been kind in offering to investigate, while she’d been eager to spend more than just a few minutes with a good friend—and glad for a task that took her outside of the city. It had also meant she needn’t dispatch troops for the job, since Mikleo was more than capable on his own.

If he’d gone alone, would he have noticed the trap before she triggered it? Maybe avoided it if he hadn’t tried to protect her? Or was it a good thing she was here, since he may have been hit either way?

Alisha did her best to smother all the _if_ s and _but_ s and _maybe_ s, but the ruins were deathly quiet and she had little else to consider.

As she held the wet cloth to his brow, she continued to check his temperature and pulse and breath. They all remained constant. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign, but it convinced her that she was safe to move him a little, so she carefully lifted his head just enough to slip her knees under it. It was better than the cold, hard ground, at least.

Previously she’d had the manners not to stare, but now she couldn’t help it: in six years, Mikleo hadn’t changed at all. Everything about him looked the same as it had the day they first met. Of course, that was true of the other seraphim as well, but to her understanding those three were far older while Mikleo was only a little younger than herself. And yet Edna was even younger in appearance than he was… It was a curious matter. What determined a seraph’s apparent age?

She wondered suddenly how Sorey might have looked after six years—and immediately regretted it as her chest tightened, instantly heavy with an old ache.

As she always did when the feeling struck, Alisha quickly tried to distract herself—checking Mikleo’s vitals again, despite having done so less than a minute ago—while struggling to recall how positive and optimistic she’d felt when speaking to Sorey at his resting place six years ago. She remembered her words, her gratitude, all of which had been genuine, and willed herself to feel that same determined fire now. It was never wholly effective, but it usually helped.

Except for today.

Between his best friend lying unconscious—maybe even dying—in her lap and the raw sting of an old wound reopened, Alisha had a hard time feeling positive.

Sorey had a future, she reminded herself for the hundredth, thousandth time. And for that she was unspeakably grateful.

It just hurt to know she wouldn’t be a part of it.

* * *

When Mikleo awoke, he couldn’t breathe.

Something covered his eyes and gripped his throat and on reflex he lashed out, but his arm only met empty air and the confusion mounted into alarm, building on panic, and he bolted upright in a half-conscious flail of limbs and choked voice but the pressure on his neck remained—

_“Mikleo!”_ Hands touched his shoulders, held tight. He went still, heart pounding and head throbbing, but he was inhaling and he could feel a thread of cool air in his hot throat, his chest, and for the moment that was all that mattered. Focus, breathe.

“Mikleo—” Alisha’s worried face faded into view beside him. Those were her hands on his arms, her shoulder holding him up. He squinted at her.

“Ali—” Pain coursed through his throat like fire, threatening to close it again. He held back a cough and touched carefully at his neck—he was covered in sweat and there were two large bumps on skin, one on the hollow of his throat and another just under the right side of his jaw.

His recent memory came flooding back and he stiffened. He stole a quick look at Alisha—as well as he was able without the ability to turn his head very far—but while she looked anxious, she appeared to be fine. That earned a silent sigh of relief.

Mikleo flexed his fingers slowly, half of which were numb at the tips, and closed his eyes to concentrate. He was pretty good with casting artes under pressure and pain; he just had to hope the drug didn’t impair his mana somehow.

Fortunately, it didn’t. Removing the poison from his system was priority, so he spent a good minute building up the necessary focus. He breathed through his mouth, slow and relaxed, and tried to put off swallowing. He was grateful that Alisha didn’t interrupt. If he messed up and wasted the energy, he might not have it in him for another attempt anytime soon.

He could only mouth the incantation, but that was enough. A light wave of relief trickled over him, soothing his headache and chills, although he still felt exhausted and sore. He felt a little lighter, free of the uncomfortable pressure that had built up in his joints and along his limbs, and he took that as a sign that the poison was neutralized.

He sagged against Alisha, suddenly twice as tired. He must have passed out again, since the next time he opened his eyes he was looking up at her. His vision was much clearer.

She immediately broke into a relieved, uncertain smile. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

For a long moment Mikleo just stared at her, trying to determine just that. He was still tired, felt a little too heavy, but he could breathe comfortably and his throat didn’t burn. The warmth coming off of her was welcome in the stale, cool air.

Even as he relaxed with the realization that he felt mostly recovered, he tensed with another: she was holding him, his head nestled in the crook of her arm as he lay across her knees. She was in her black undershirt, for some reason, which explained why her body heat was even more pronounced than usual. Those weren’t terrible things in themselves, but he was angled slightly towards her, his face snug against the curves of her chest.

For the second time he sat up in a rush. The movement made him lightheaded, but he dragged himself off of her regardless to sit on the floor. “I’m fine,” he insisted, the words hoarse and half-slurred with sleep.

“Oh—but your face is all red—is your fever back?” She touched the back of her hand to his cheek and Mikleo only just had the sense not to lean away or do anything else rude.

“No, it’s—I’m just—a little dizzy. Moved too fast,” he muttered. Her touch fell away and he held back a sigh. “...How long was I out for?”

“I would guess a few hours. I haven’t been outside, so I’m not sure of the time.”

Mikleo blinked. “You stayed here the whole time?”

Alisha blinked back. “Of course. I didn’t know what was wrong, and I couldn’t just leave you.”

“...I see.” He glanced down, and for the first time he noticed that her tunic was draped over him.

“You kept shivering,” she told him. “It wasn’t much, but I did what I could to keep you warm.”

“It was enough,” he assured her. “Thank you.” He handed the shirt back and she took it, but only hugged it to her front as a light frown tugged at her mouth. For a moment he simply watched her, studying her in a bold way that he wouldn’t normally (an effect of either his fatigue or the broken fever, maybe). He noted the way her normally straight shoulders were slumped, how her bangs brushed the bridge of her sharp nose as she dropped her chin a little, how the corner of her mouth twitched as if she were chewing the inside of her lip.

They were small things he’d noticed before, at times when she wasn’t looking—when her anxiety and sadness and unspoken words were directed at Sorey. To see those things aimed at himself now was… humbling, and somehow aggravating. He wasn’t annoyed by her concern, but he felt as though he was expected to react a certain way, as if the situation demanded a response he wasn’t familiar with giving.

He was equal parts glad for and agitated by the attention, which made absolutely no sense. He wasn’t shy, but it wasn’t as though he strove to be the center of attention, either.

She saved him from that puzzling train of thought. “Mikleo, I…” Suddenly she bowed towards him, her face low to the ground. “Please forgive me! It was my fault you were hurt. I shouldn’t have let my curiosity get the better of me like that—I should have been more careful. Please, accept my deepest apologies!”

Mikleo stared at her. She remained prostrated. He began to feel flustered again.

“Th-There’s no need to be so formal,” he stammered quickly as he averted his gaze. “And there’s no need to apologize besides—it’s really my fault. I should have recognized the situation faster than I did.” In the corner of his eye he saw her slowly straighten up.

“Regardless,” she murmured, “I…”

He shook his head lightly as he thought back to the trap room. “It’s probably better that it happened the way it did, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“The number of corpses in that room… and how quickly the poison affected me… It’s likely that it’s meant to kill instantly, to stop any intruders from violating the area. And in previous cases, it did.”

“But not you,” Alisha pondered. “Why do you think that is?”

“It’s possible the poison simply lost its potency through the years, so it isn’t as fatal as it once was,” he said thoughtfully. “However… given that it was likely made using seraphic artes, like the rest of these ruins, I doubt that would be an issue.” Mikleo glanced at the distant doorway. “I’d say it’s probable that the trap was designed with human intruders in mind—and to that extent, it’s possible that a poison could have been designed to be fatal to humans, and only humans.”

Alisha picked up his train of thought. “But not to seraphim…”

He nodded. “This is all purely theoretical, but on the chance that a seraph accidentally activated the trap, the result would be painful, but not lethal. A failsafe of sorts, if you will.” He gave her an easy, reassuring smile. “So don’t fret about what happened. Getting knocked out for a while was a fair price to pay, compared to what might have happened had you been hit.”

She blinked again, appearing genuinely surprised by that remark, and it was quickly replaced by a warm, touched smile in return. “Thank you, Mikleo. That’s… very kind of you to say. It means a lot.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so sentimental. He chalked that up to his lingering delirium, as well, and looked away as he felt heat creeping into his face again. “I mean—I just meant it was the most logical alternative.” For once, he envied Sorey’s happy-go-lucky attitude towards things like this. “But, anyway… so you’re alright?”

She nodded. “Perfectly fine, thanks to you.”

He ran a hand through his hair distractedly—and then froze, confused. He touched his forehead again, but there was nothing there but skin. Something close to panic swelled in his chest again as he hurriedly looked around at the floor, which was bare.

Had he dropped it in the trap room? He had half a mind to get up right then and go look, debating whether a second dose of that poison would kill him in his current state if he had to go that far in—

“Are you looking for this?” He glanced up to see Alisha holding out his circlet in both hands, carefully, as if afraid of dropping it. His shoulders relaxed as he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. With a nod he took the band, brushing his bangs back and slipping it on as he’d done hundreds of times before. “I’m... sorry for removing it,” she added tentatively.

“It’s fine. I’m glad I didn’t lose it.” He shook his hair back into place. Noticing her curiosity and guessing her unspoken question, he said simply after a moment, “It’s an old keepsake.”

“I see.” Alisha seemed to contemplate adding something else, only to change her mind and ask instead, “So are you alright now? There isn’t any rush, so rest as long as you need.”

He nodded. “I’m fine enough to walk, and I’ll have enough energy to heal the rest soon.” The only thing that still noticeably hurt was his neck. He ran his fingers over it again, wincing slightly when they brushed the two puncture marks. “How do these look?” he asked her.

“They’re only a little red now. And… um…” She fidgeted in place and didn’t meet his eyes. “There is… some bruising, as well.”

He gave a perplexed hum. He didn’t think the darts had hit hard enough to bruise. “That’s kind of strange, but alright.” Noticing the pink color in her cheeks, he frowned curiously. “Alisha? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, swatting at the air dismissively. “Nothing at all.”


End file.
